Tintin's Farewell Letter
by blue.totoro
Summary: "I had wanted so much to have a perfect ending..." Tintin writes one last letter to Captain Haddock. Very angsty oneshot. Warning: character death


**One Last Goodbye**

Dear Captain,

I'm sorry that I don't have any more time to live.

You've been my greatest friend through the years. You've always been there for me. I wanted to write this letter to say thank you, because I know I wouldn't be able to say it as well in person. I wanted to make sure that nothing was left unsaid.

By the time you read this, I'll already be dead. I made sure to hide it in a place that you probably won't think of for a long time, although I know that you'll find it eventually. I didn't want you to read it while I was still alive. I'm not sure why, but I think it's better this way.

I'm sorry that I have to leave you all like this, you and Snowy and Calculus and Nestor and everybody else. I'm sorry that I've reached the end. That I won't have any more time.

Time. That's the one thing we'll never have enough of, isn't it?

I've heard it said that when something or somebody works for you, you consider that thing or person to be your friend. And that, when it's working against you, you consider it to be your enemy.

Times change. Life can be a beautiful thing, glittering and magical and glorious. Every day is a new opportunity. And then suddenly, something changes, and a dark veil covers your eyes and you can't believe what you ever did wrong to deserve what's happening to you.

It's been so hard, over the past few days, to think about my life in that way. There I was, so full of life and happiness, invincible, so ready to take on the world. And all of a sudden, without a reason, without an explanation, it was over. To hear that I only had weeks to live— it's like being pulled into a nightmare. It feels so meaningless and strange, that the same life that gave me health and happiness could suddenly turn on me like that. Life was once my friend, but it's become my enemy. I know I'm forever separated from the things that I love most about living.

But why? What did I do to deserve this?

Will you miss me, Captain?

Will there be a big empty space in your life when I'm gone?

They've given me four days to live. For a week or two, I stayed in a hospital room, hooked up to miles of tubes and drips and face masks, all in some desperate effort to prolong my life for a few more years. Yesterday, they sent me home. It's not because I'm getting better that they sent me home. It's because I'm getting worse. I suppose they just gave up and decided it would be better for me to live out my last few days with the people I love most.

People tell me that I'm sick, very sick. It's not true. I can feel life pulsing through my veins, fast and sweet and desperate. And I'm awake; painfully awake and aware. Why is it that some people get to live out their entire lives, when I know that any moment I could fall asleep and never wake up? Why does my time have to be so short? How can I be sick, when I'm still clutching onto this life? It all feels like some big, terrible mistake, that maybe everybody's wrong and I'm okay after all.

For the past few weeks, you've tried so hard to cheer me up, telling jokes and reading stories and bringing me to the garden so I could feel how warm it was outside. You've been like a father to me. And I'm sorry that I haven't been more grateful.

It wasn't supposed to be this way. I was supposed to die in your arms, my body riddled with holes from the bullets that were meant for you. I was supposed to jump from a waterfall and crash onto the rocks below. I don't want it to end like this.

But I know that I have no choice.

This morning I woke up and felt happy. Golden sunlight spilled through the window, and I could hear the sound of a dawny woodpecker chirping. I remembered something having been wrong earlier, but I couldn't remember exactly what it was. And then I remembered: not all at once, but slowly. It came back in the way that these kinds of things do: at first, an awareness that I was unhappy. Then came the questioning: why should I be unhappy? And then it all came crashing back.

I had wanted so much to have a perfect ending. And it's been so hard, accepting the truth that some stories don't end perfectly. It's been so hard accepting that I'm part of a poem that doesn't rhyme, that I'm part of a song that doesn't make any sense. I guess I should have known. I shouldn't have expected my story to end well— I don't deserve to be happy more than anybody else does. I never deserved to live out a waking dream, like I've been doing for the past few years, while people around the world were killing and dying every day. I never deserved it. But I wanted it so much.

Captain, you were once willing to die for me. There you were, hanging from the rope in Tibet, and you were willing to die for me. You would've cut that rope, if I'd let you. And I'll never forget that.

I'm sorry that I'll never be there to repay the debt. You know that if I could, I would.

I think that the worst thing will be missing the everyday. You know, the things that you never really think about, but seem so precious when you're about to lose. I can get used to the idea of dying, but what I can't get used to is the idea of leaving this life— not just this life, but everything in it, all those millions of tiny fragments and moments that all come flooding back to you in your last few hours. I think about all the things that I have to leave: glittering skylines and cold city breezes, trees waving their branches in the night sky, looking out over the big blue ocean and feeling something so beautiful, I don't think I'll ever be able to describe it. Hot cocoa and warm fires, reading books, singing carols around the piano, leaving on my motorcycle on a cold winter afternoon to visit the Christmas market. I'll have to leave the gold and red leaves that drift slowly in the wind, the crisp autumn sky, the scent of woodsmoke in the air. I miss the ridiculous songs that you sing. I miss the smell of the sea that always seems to linger around you, no matter how far we are from the shore.

I miss waiting for the traffic lights to change, and looking both ways before I cross.

I miss drinking tea in the breakfast room, looking over the newspaper and laughing over some funny article with you.

I miss the way that sunlight looks when it streams through my bedroom window.

It would be so much easier to let go if I didn't have to think about all of that. It would be so much easier if I didn't have anything left to live for.

But I have so much to live for.

Forgive me, Captain.

Sincerely,

Tintin

_"Death is a great transformation. But it is not an end." _  
_― Ambelin Kwaymullina_


End file.
